


Dibella's Whispers

by Syllis



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, Taarie and Endarie are not sisters in this AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 16,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: My Erdi, in the first few weeks after she left the Temple of Dibella to become a courtier in Solitude, before the events that led to her rise and fall in status.Sabine Nytte is, well, just another pirate.
Relationships: Angi/Illia, Anwen/Faleen, Elda Early-Dawn/Susanna the Wicked, Elenwen/Brelas, Endarie/Taarie, Eola/Lisbet (Elder Scrolls), Erdi/Karita, Erdi/Sabine Nytte, Faralda/Nirya (Elder Scrolls), Ghorza gra-Bagol/Voada, Gilfre/Nilsine Shatter-Shield, Idresa Sadri/Niranye, Illdi/Karita, Suvaris Atheron/Adalaisa Vendicci
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25





	1. Rainbow. (Haafingar, Solitude, 4e194)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Erdi, in the first few weeks after she left the Temple of Dibella to become a courtier in Solitude, before the events that led to her rise and fall in status.
> 
> Sabine Nytte is, well, just another pirate.

Sabine Nytte propped up on one elbow, and leaned down to murmur in her ear, low and sensual, about all the filthy things she wanted Erdi to do to her. The other woman smelled of woman-musk and heat. She worked her way along to Erdi’s mouth, kissed her deeply, and raised up on one elbow. “Look at me, pretty eyes,” she directed, and Erdi’s lashes fluttered back open, meeting the pirate’s intense dark gaze.

It was a remarkably intimate moment, at least till Sabine’s skinny little tarred sailor’s braid swung down and popped Erdi on the cheek.

“Dammit.” Sabine tucked it back behind her ear, ruefully. “Almost no hair at all, and what do you know, it still gets in the way.” She sat up on her knees and sleeked down her cropped stripe of hair, like she was re-ordering the mane of a roached horse. She frowned. “How much more time you got?”

“Only an hour,” Erdi confessed. “I don’t think we have time to get started again. I still have to go and bathe and get my fresh clothes picked up from Mariel.”

“Hmm.” Calloused fingertips brushed over Erdi’s ribs, and she flinched just a little bit too much. Sabine gave her a look and drew the linen shift up out of the way.

“You, ah--” the pirate cleared her throat. “You getting along alright up at the Palace?”

Erdi glanced down at herself, at the angry rainbow of bruises layered across her side and hip. “Arms practice,” she said, and laughed merrily. “No one's beating me. Sometimes I get a cutting look.”

“Mm.” Another kiss, this time in farewell. “I still say… Watch yourself.”


	2. Bloom (Markarth, Understone Keep 4e202)

Ghorza’s broad thumbs neatly separated the white meat and crackling skin of the half-chicken from its bones. She savored the luxurious bite with great pleasure. This was why Ghorza came down to the kitchens to eat, rather than fight over each savory up at the jarl’s table, for all that her smith-mastery had earned her that right. One of the reasons.

“May I have that, please?” Voada came near her, to seize what was left of the carcass for the stock pot, and went away again. Ghorza inhaled, to catch the drifting scent of rosewater, and leaned back all the way in her chair.

It creaked, just as the cooking-fire popped.

Voada shoved the tines of a cooking-spider deep into the coals, and turned to grab a long-handled skillet, swirling oil into it in the same motion. A deft flick of her ivory-skinned wrist, and in a few seconds the rising scent of cinnamon and clove and elves’ ear filled the room.

Ghorza worried at a tusk with her tongue, watching the precise economy of Voada’s movements, just as swift and unhurried as if she had been a master blacksmith herself. 

Bloom, that was the word Ghorza was searching for. A little heat, and Voada’s presence always permeated her space. The golden cord of the Breton woman’s looped braids swayed back and forth as she worked, a faint half-smile on her face.


	3. Secret. (Haafingar, Thalmor Embassy, 4e 198)

“Get out,” snapped Elenwen.

Third Emissary Rulindil bolted upright from his snooze. “Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed for his logbook and hurriedly left for his quarters.

All of the cells were empty, save the last. Elewen swung the door wide, as she entered. The Bosmer, panting in the binds which affixed her spread arms to the wall, jerked her gaze up at the sound. Immediately she looked back down at the floor.

“Oh, good,” said Elenwen, with kindness. “We’re learning.” She stroked a hand along the fine-boned arm, to feel it tremble. “I trust that Master Rulindil was adequately convincing? Pay more attention to your duty from now on.” Her long fingers continued along, tracing the heat of the welts crossing Brelas’ shoulder. At that shudder, both of them had to stifle a gasp, though Brelas’ seemed to be that of discomfort.

“All right, I think that’s enough for one night. Let’s get you out of these, shall we?”

Brelas looked up at that, through the strands of hair that had stuck to her forehead with sweat. She nodded.

“Sorry,” Elenwen said, as they made their halting way forward, Brelas’ arm tightly threaded about her waist. “I got caught up for some time, unexpectedly, and--” her foot slipped, and the two of them wavered for a moment. Elenwen steadied them. It would not do to go tumbling down the stairs. “I’m certain your arms hurt.” 

“A bit,” agreed Brelas.

Later: “When did Rulindil remand the prisoners?”

“The Northwatch guards came by for them around midnight, I think,” said Brelas. She laughed. “They seemed pretty cowed by then. The Third Emissary was in pretty good form.”

“Mhm.” Elenwen yawned. She rubbed along Brelas’ side, where faint streaks were all that remained of the whip marks that she had healed, silently asking a question.

“He kept to his limits,” Brelas added, smugly satisfied.

Elenwen pulled her up a little further across her chest, to savor the languorous embrace. “I keep thinking,” she mused. “We probably ought to put a bed downstairs just to spare ourselves the trek up here.”

“But that would mean bringing Master Rulindil in on our secret!” Brelas’ pout was enchanting.

Elenwen gathered her in.


	4. Denim. (Athens, Georgia, USA 2002.)

“Get lost,” Erdi hissed.

“All right, all right, I’m out,” said Marcus, holding up his hands and backing away. “Just don’t blame me if you get lost.” He pointed. “That’s the Tate Student Center, try not to forget where it’s at. Remember where we did the karaoke? I'll meet you at that room at noon tomorrow. That’s when we portal back.” His teeth flashed in the dim. “Good luck.”

“Was that your boyfriend?” asked the girl. She pulled her denim jacket more closely around herself against the chill of the damp wind.

“Gods no,” said Erdi, at once. “We know each other from back home. He just likes to act like he’s my big brother or something. So annoying.” She paused, trying to remember the word Marcus had taught her. “So you were saying you knew a good place to get, um… latte?”


	5. Note. (Markarth, Temple of Dibella, 4e 204)

Anwen paused as she came up to the great open hall that topped Dibella’s grand temple in Markarth. It was her duty to see to the altars; to gather the tithes and offerings, to ensure that the space was cleaned and purified for tonight’s ritual.

A new-lovers’ offering had been carefully arranged beneath Dibella’s altar. Flowers, a scatter of coins, and what looked to be some golden bits of metal. She picked up an intricately carved orb, and pondered it. Ah. Dwemer. Perhaps it would sell. A Legion award; a token of valor, interesting. A couple of love letters, left at the feet of Lady Dibella, in gratitude.

Anwen smiled, feeling the goddess’ approval wash through her. She never got tired of seeing letters and she always saved them for last. She unfolded it to read and sighed with pleasure. Well-written, for once; it spoke to the heart. “And warm the soul which makes my home,” she murmured, and tucked it into the bowl that she’d swept the flower petals into; it would be burned along with Dibella’s incense, wafting its words skyward.

But when she glanced at its mate, she was instantly sorry. The words were stiff and awkwardly written, as if its author were profoundly uncomfortable. Anwen would have known that hand anywhere. Worse, it was signed, so there could be no denying it. It was a blade to her heart. Anwen sank down onto the bench, tears trickling down her face.

That last conversation: “Well then, you need to choose,” Faleen had snapped, the sweat and tears gleaming against her dark skin. “The priesthood or me. I’m not having any more of--”

Lady Dibella or Mara; you can’t be sworn to both.

Faleen’s bags had already been packed and at her feet; she had already made her choice.

So Anwen had made hers. 

She took a few more breaths, to bring in the steadying beneficience of her goddess, letting the heartache wash through her. 

This too is part of mine, whispered Dibella. Make me a painting of it.

Anwen nodded, jerkily. “I hear you, Lady Dibella,” she whispered. She dropped the letter into the burning-bowl so that it too would render its voice to the goddess. 

Anwen couldn’t wish Faleen ill. Not after all these years. She wished her happy.

Anwen took up the broom, sprinkled it with the blessed water and began to sweep, chanting.


	6. Upside Down. (Eastmarch, Mixwater Mill, 4e 203)

“What do you want?” snapped the mill owner. “Got a lot of logs to roll through today, and not much time to chat.”

Nilsine hesitated. “The Shatter-Shield account,” she said, and coughed against a voice gone hoarse from crying. “I’ve brought the month’s payment.”

“Name’s Gilfre,” said the woman, tucking her gloves into her belt. “Account book’s in the house. Let’s go have a look.”

“Alright,” she said at length. “Four hundred and thirty-two septims, payable by last Tirdas of the month, else a penalty of fifteen percent--” She looked up. “You’re late.”

Nilsine nodded. “I know. There’s five hundred here, and Father wanted to let you know he’s sorry--” Her voice caught. “Things’re all upside down, at home.”

“Thought maybe so, when I didn’t see your sister,” agreed Gilfre.

Nilsine tried to hold it back but she found herself sitting in Gilfre’s chair, sobbing with her face pressed into the rough canvas of the woman’s work apron, those rough hands gently petting back her hair. 

“Shh,” she was told, then and later. “No matter. Take as long as you need.”

\--

“Gil?” she said, in the middle of the night.

“I’m here.” Gilfre rolled over and slung an arm over her waist, pressing her warmth closer. “Need me?” 

Nilsine nodded, convulsive, and wept, while that work-hardened hand patted against her chest; comfort. “Sorry,” she said, and sniffled wetly, wiping her face. “It’s been months and months. I just can’t seem to get past it--” Fingers brushed her lips to hush her.

“No matter.”

Nilsine cleared her throat. “Um. Something that just came to me. The jarl’s sending you help because you’re killing yourself to meet the quota. What happens if you just, I don’t know-- stop production?” She could feel the other woman’s surprise.

“You know,” said Gilfre. “I never thought of that.”


	7. Dark. (Markarth, The Warrens, 4e202)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny snip inspired by [Babble's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babble/pseuds/Babble) Return to Red Mountain. 
> 
> Go read it for the most terrifying femslash pairing ever!

Lisbet sat still, heart racing, her mouth still savoring the richness of that forbidden feast. Then she made up her mind. “Turn up the lanterns,” she said. “I want to see you.”

“Oh, no my dear,” came Eola’s voice, richly amused. “That’s not Namiira’s way. I shall only come to you in the dark.”


	8. Lace. (Firsthold, Auridon, 4e160)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note-- As per headcanon in Cyrelian's story, Taarie and Endarie are not sisters; though that is what they call each other for the sake of being able to continue to do business so close to the reach of the Thalmor Embassy. By 4e200, they have been doing business in Solitude for at least a couple of decades and are happily married.
> 
> This is how they meet.

“Ta’aeriwhyle’imn,” said her mother, reprovingly. “You need to make up your mind.”

“Yes, mama,” said Taarie. She hesitated further.

“You can ask for guidance,” prompted her mother. “It is a foolish waste to hire someone for their excellence and then fail to take advantage of their expertise.”

The tailor needed no further cue; she opened the valise again and withdrew the packet of swatches again, for Taarie to place the lace against. “Do you see how the gold flecks are brought out by the green? By contrast, the yellow quenches it. So if you were looking for something more versatile, I’d suggest the unfoiled version, or the knotted one.”

“Ah--”

“We aren’t kinlords, Ta’aeriwhyle’imn.”

“Yes, mama.” Taarie bit her lip, and turned to face the tailor. “The knotted lace, if you please, madame.”

Taarie’s mother’s attention had drifted; she went to look out the window to comment on the threatened rain. 

“A very good choice, Miss,” the tailor murmured, her gaze sweeping up to meet Taarie’s as she proffered the sample. When their hands brushed, Taarie’s fingers tingled.


	9. Fire. (College of Winterhold, Winterhold, 4e203)

“Bitch,” hissed Nirya. 

She put on a bright, false smile as she shoved her way past the Destruction Master. Faralda made a noise of distress and the student she’d been inappropriately chatting up said: “Hey!” 

“Sorry!” Nirya called, without stopping.

She saw Sergius Turranius walking through the College gardens; changed her path to avoid his, and eeled into Drevis Neloren’s office just as the clock finished striking ten. The Illusion Master did no more than give her a meaningful look before tenting his fingers together and starting in with the lesson.

\--

“No,” said Brelyna Maron. “I don’t understand. What on earth would Master Faralda want with your study notes?” She squinted. “Are you feeling all right?” 

That irritating new Altmer student standing next to Brelyna didn’t say anything at all, but he did glance in the direction of Colette Marence, damn him. 

“I am not paranoid!” Nirya asserted. “Faralda’s just moving my things around to make me look like a crazy person. Is she looking over here again? Why is she staring at me?”

“Aren’t you a Destruction scholar?” put in the new student. “Wouldn’t Master Faralda be responsible for oversight of your work in that respect. Maybe she’s just, you know. Monitoring the level of scholarship to ensure that it meets College standards.”

What?! Nirya’s jaw dropped. 

“It's a small group of us here at the College. Favors don't go unremembered. Neither do affronts.” she advised him.

He gave a careless shrug and offered a non-apology. Prick.

J’zargo broke in with a boast about some kind of cloak spell that he’d come up with, just as Brelyna asked an even more upsetting question:

“My problem with her? She's the one who has a problem with me! She's threatened by me! By my skill as a wizard, by my elegance and posture, by my superior good looks! But she's not going to get the better of me, oh no. I won't let it get to me one bit. That's what she's after.”

Brelyna nodded along in sympathy but Nirya saw her side-long glance at the Altmer student.

As soon as the dining hall doors opened, Nirya stalked away. She would sit by herself. Or next to Master Colette. Or even-- she surveyed the table with annoyance. Sergius Turranius. Biting the inside of her cheek, she went all the way back over to the other side of the table, taking an empty spot near the head chair. The Arch-Mage hadn’t come down for dinner in weeks, so perhaps she’d be safe.

“Is this seat taken?” came the nasally voice, and Nirya flinched. Her cheeks were burning, red as fire.

“It is not,” she said, and turned her head so that she would not have to look at Advisor Ancano as she ate. Tactfully, he did the same.

“Master Faralda was looking for you earlier,” he said, wiping his chin with the napkin and shoving back the plate with the remains of the toffee-cake. “And no, I don’t know what she wants. She didn’t say.”

Good gods, Faralda had actually deigned to speak to Ancano? She must be… angry. Something Nirya said must have gotten back to her.

Nirya pushed her own plate back. She was no longer hungry.


	10. Shield. (Jorrvaskr, Whiterun 4e203)

“Again,” said Njada. “Lay on.”

Ria nodded and circled back and forth, looking for an opening. Njada chose not to bother trying to fake her out; her shield and sword remained still, waiting.

“HrrraaaaAAAggh!” cried Ria, charging in. A split second later: “Oooow.”

“It’s not broken,” said Njada, unsympathetic. “Again. Stop beating your face against my shield. Look for the opening.”

Ria whimpered, but she got to her feet, and they resumed the lesson.

When Niada went to check on her later, the newest recruit to the Companions was unlacing her gauntlet and cautiously feeling at her wrist, the tears tracking down her cheeks. “I’m shit, I’m just always going to be shit,” she was mumbling to herself. 

Njada sighed. She was the best of the Companions when it came to fighting. She wasn’t good at talking.

“Hey,” she said, trying to be encouraging. “The jarl gives us access to his icehouse, for when you whelps get banged up.” She paused. “Come on, we’ll go up to Dragonsreach.”

“Uh. All right.” Cautiously, Ria got to her feet.

“Ria!!” Farkas bounded into the room, drifting crumbs. Mouth full, he said: “Tilma made sweet rolls but she said you gotta come and get your own.”

Ria immediately followed him out.

Njada found herself just standing there.

\---

“Hey, we ought to be calling you Ria Bear-Killer, then!” said Vilkas, before Njada could get a word in. She stared him down.

Ria was happy; flushed. Her freckled skin glowed golden in the firelight as she gestured broadly, showing them how she’d gotten a spear up through the creature’s mouth into its skull. Eorlund was making a bearskin cloak for her.

All at once, Njada had an idea. “Want to get a bath, later?”

Ria looked startled and unhappy. She sniffed at herself. “I just washed!” she said. “Do I need to change out this armor padding already? It’s pretty new, I had Eorlund help me with it on Morndas--”

Aela caught Njada’s eye and shook her head, minutely.

Vilkas immediately switched the topic to armor-lacing.

Njada went back to looking at the inside of her mug.

\---

Ria said: “I don’t even think she likes me.”

She and Aela had found a quiet spot up on Whiterun’s perimeter wall, looking down over the rolling moors towards Pale Pass Road.

“If you’re looking for advice on that front, I’m not the best person to ask,” Aela confessed. “I’ve got my own troubles. Why don’t you ask Skjor, or Kodlak? They’ve known her longer.”

“Oh no,” said Ria, cringing inside. “I couldn’t do that!” The thought of the Harbinger knowing her personal business was terrifying.

“Have it your way, then.” Aela pulled the cork out of the bottle of mead with her teeth, spat it into her lap, and drank. “I’m not getting into the middle of this,” she said, to Ria’s pleading look.

\--

Both of Skjor’s eyebrows lifted, including the one over his scarred blind eye. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Ahh-” Ria thought about running, but folded her arms and stood resolute. “No sir, I’m not,” she said, even though Skjor was still laughing at her. “It um… it’s not… not prohibited or anything, is it?” She paused. “I mean, I was sure, and then I was not sure and I…” She sighed. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble if it isn’t allowed.”

Skjor sniffed. “Tradition.” His gesture showed what he thought of that. “More honored in the breach, I’d say. Kodlak had better not start caring about bygone rules if he wants his people to stick around.” He sat back onto the edge of the railing, to look Ria over with a thoughtful grey eye. “All right, whelp. You want me to go see what I can find out?” He scowled. “What happens if you don’t like the answer?”

Uh. Ria swallowed. “Nothing, sir,” she said.

“Heh.” Skjor shook his head. “Go spar.” And then: “Hold up. Just one little bit of advice.”

\--

“And that’s when Skjor said that no one cares about that old rule, anyways,” Ria finished.

“You sure about that?” 

Njada came in, and they both fell silent at her scowl. She swept the messy room with a disgusted glance, and grabbed Ria’s boots to put them on the rack, squaring them up.

“Sorry,” said Ria, flustered. She began to re-rack her gear, picking it up from where she’d left it scattered all over the floor. Her cuirass kept skewing sideways on the armor stand. Aela fixed it for her. Njada was still glaring.

“Are you responsible for what Skjor said to me?” Njada demanded, abruptly.

Aela started to say something, but Ria stood up from her crouch, helmet still in her hands. If she had the courage to face down a bear, she could do this, right? “That was me,” she asserted.

Aela shrugged. She pushed her way by, out into the hall. Not her business, not her problem.

Now Njada looked even more upset.

“What did he say?” Ria bit at her lip.

Njada folded her arms. “Go talk to her. Give it a chance. Do you good to find out what life’s really about,” she bit out. “And then he laughed at me!”

Ria stood still, thinking. Then she said: “Are you going to punch me like you did Athis?” Carelessly, as though the answer didn’t matter, she turned to put the helmet on the rack.

“No. I ah--”

“Good,” said Ria. “Then we’re going up to the Huntsman.”


	11. At Work. (Firsthold, Auridon 4e161)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuing story of Taarie and Endarie, Solitude's infamous tailor "sisters"... this is from before the time they were forced to make a new life.

The tailor cleared her throat and Taarie returned her posture to the correct position; flat on her feet. “Sorry,” she said. “I found myself caught up in the conversation. I didn’t mean to interrupt you while you were at work.” 

Endarie went on pinning the hem without looking up. “No matter. Time is money, and it’s all factored into the final cost at the end, so it’s up to you whether I sew or chat.”

That was what Taarie liked about Endarie; the tailor answered back directly at once, with that languid couldn’t-care-less high-society voice that Taarie always struggled to emulate. The austere sweep of her dark-gold hair was the height of elegance, right down to the carefully trained wisps that curled down over her collar. It made Taarie want to set her hand there, just so; which was without a doubt its intent. The rest of the tailor’s person was wholly demure; a dark dress, cut close over her full bosom and rising to a modest neckline. Taarie eyed Endarie’s waistline and wondered, would it look as sleek without her stays?

The tailor glanced up. “Really,” she said. “Talk all you like, just stop wriggling.” Her hand clasped around Taarie’s stockinged ankle and gripped it, for emphasis. 

Taarie stopped moving. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe, even after Endarie let go.

After a few moments: “Very good,” said the tailor. “I’ll set the basting in before our next session, and then make corrections as needed. You may sit down.”

Taarie sank down onto the cushioned bench at once.

“Are your feet paining you?” Endarie inquired. “It’s very difficult to stand so still in one position for so long. It gives the leg-cramp.” She brushed the hem of the skirt aside to take Taarie’s foot in her long-fingered hands and squeezed, her thumbs pressing hard into the instep.

Taarie had no idea what to do or say: “Yes, Madame? Or No, thank you?” She remained mute, as Endarie worked at her right foot, then her left. Her hands were on Taarie’s calf now, still working. A single strand of honey-colored hair had come down to brush against her cheek as Taarie watched, mesmerized at the sight of the tailor’s rapt face; at the pleasure that was coursing through Taarie’s limbs. 

“Would you like me to help you relax?” asked the tailor, and Taarie shivered all over. That had one meaning, and only one specific meaning in the novels that she’d smuggled out of the lending-library and hidden under her mattress. She didn’t know what to say. She could never acknowledge having read those novels; and certainly she couldn’t presume… did tailors even visit lending-libraries? And… what was that expression Endarie was wearing? The curve of her turned-away cheek suggested a smug smile. All the while, her strong thumbs worked their way up Taarie’s calves, all the way up to the small muscles surrounding each knee. Would she-- but no, Endarie had brushed her skirts back into place and was rising to stand, her hands deftly re-affixing that fallen strand of hair, till she looked just as cool and imposing as previous. “Middas next, then?” Endarie asked.

Taarie could barely reply.

Middas next, of course, was the time for the fitting of the bodice, and Taarie had no idea how she was going to hold still for that, with the tailor’s hands moving over each intimate curve of her body. At least, she didn’t have to be fitted for trousers-- her thoughts hiccuped to a stop at the thought of Endarie’s hands drifting up between her thighs, and--

She had to go be indisposed for awhile. And bathe afterwards and put on fresh linen.

This may have happened more than once.

Since she was about to be married and be the mistress of her own household-- her prospective husband’s House was far away from Firsthold, though his financial holdings were here-- Mama had given her the responsibility of reconciling her own invoices; and there it was on the bill every week, the extra half-hour of the tailor’s time. Taarie blushed furiously, but her pen made the mark and there it was, paid. No one would ever know. 

“Lean forward,” came the tailor’s cool voice, and Taarie obeyed. That clever hand slipped into her bodice and cupped her left breast, reasserting it into the correct shape. Endarie backed several feet away to look her over. “Lift your chin,” she ordered. “Turn towards your left.” 

Taarie moved and stretched and leaned as she was bidden, till Endarie had her come over to the window, so that the bodice could be stripped from her with as little disturbance of its layers as possible.

“We will use this as the base,” said Endarie, with satisfaction. “There will have to be a further fitting of the one-shouldered mock-up, assuming that is what you choose, but all else is well in order. It will be two weeks or so until I bring the final product.”

Final product. That meant their time together was drawing to a close. Taarie realized that her mouth was hanging open in dismay. She closed it, thinking. Then she sat down on the chaise, knees slightly splayed. “My feet hurt,” she prompted; and a few moments later. “Really, it’s my legs.”

Endarie’s fingers traced across the place where the stockings bit into Taarie’s thigh. “We can do better than this,” she said. “Remind me. I’ll bring a pair.” Slowly, carefully, she worked her way up, thumbs grazing across Taarie’s inner thigh, till her forefinger grazed damp linen.

“Your pardon,” she said, cooly.

Taarie somehow found the ability to respond in kind: “Pray, continue.”

Taarie was ruining her broidered underskirt with her tight-fisted clench. She forced her hands to relax, and for herself to breathe, as those clever fingers traced over her smallclothes, tracing out the lineaments of her sex, so swollen now that the sensations felt unreal. She was floating to Aetherius now; her only connection to Nirn being the little zaps of lightning that Endarie was coaxing from her flesh. Her knees slid apart further and the tailor cooed approval, tracing upwards to rock the pad of her fingers against her nub; and Taarie was done, her hips grinding uncouthly down into the cushion and upwards against Endarie’s hand as she stifled a cry only to grunt and groan in a most unladylike fashion.

“Well, that was something,” said Endarie, voice muffled against her skirts. Her hand still cupped Taarie gently, sheltering through the still-flashing aftershocks. When she sat up, her hair was definitely mussed, and her cheeks were reddened; she was lovely, and even more lovely, Endarie scorned to conceal the incriminating hand she had working between her own thighs. Taarie just wanted to grasp her by those slim shoulders and keep her here, forever. 

“I’m so sorry this has to end,” she managed to say, once the two of them had managed to get themselves together and the chaise-cushion had been turned to hide any incriminating dampness. 

Endarie lifted one elegant brow. “I can arrange to provide millinery and other assorted linens,” she said. “I presume your new household will be in regular need of those?”


	12. Perform (Bard's College, Solitude 4e203)

“You’re new here, right? I’m Illdi, and that’s Jorn. Welcome to the Bards’ College! It’s like a… musical museum.”

Karita lifted a brow. She set her pack down. “Why do you call it that?” she said, because the other young woman’s tone had shifted abruptly.

“You’ll get to learn every ancient story and old song that Dean Giraud can dredge up, for certain,” said Illdi. “So you’ll enjoy this place, if that’s what you’re about.” She scowled. “But gods help you if you try writing something new.”

“Hey, now,” said Jorn. “I didn’t mean it that way, I just--”

“If you’re not going to be sticking up for me, I’m headed out,” Ildi said. She went around Karita to pull open the heavy door.

“What was that about?” Karita asked.

“Oh, Illdi,” said the young Nord with the half-shaved head. He flicked his hair back into place. “She’s just upset because Dean Inge criticized her work. Thought it was pretty good, myself. She gets intimidated when they get down on her for doing something original. Freezes up when it’s time to perform.There was just a couple of places where I thought she could have shored up the meter. But what do I know, right?”

“You’re a student as well?”

“Sure am!” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, hey, there’s old Viarmo. You’ll want to talk to him first. Bye for now.”

\---

Karita wasn’t sure exactly how to approach her, but she could see how free and easy the other Bardic students were with each other; they were all effusive kisses and cuddles. She didn’t have that license yet, she thought-- but then Jorn beckoned her over and ostentatiously slipped an arm around her waist.

“Hey!” she snapped, but someone else’s hand snaked up to jab him in the ribs, and pulled her downward onto a lap. She yelped.

“No fair, Jorn,” said Ildi, her breath so close it puffed against Karita’s cheek. “You don’t get to poach all the newcomers. Now apologize.”

“It’s all right,” said Karita. “I used to serve drinks. You get used to all the ass-grabbing.”

“Hey!" Jorn looked distressed. "I didn’t do that--”

Illdi broke out into a full-throated laugh as Jorn sputtered, red-faced. She rubbed her snub nose against Karita’s cheek; a quick Skaal kiss, and resituated the two of them, so that they shared the bench.

“Now,” she said to the group. “The last two lines are the same lines we hear in the descant: ‘Spider’s, oh woe’ and ‘Spiders, oh no’-- got it? Follow Jorn’s drum; he knows what to do. Everyone got it?”

Laughing, confident; a far cry from how she’d appeared at the college, Illdi cheerfully bossed the other students around. Her fingers slipped through Karita’s, cradling her hand.

“You all right?” she whispered a little later, as Karita was nodding along, wide-eyed. “This group can get a little overwhelming.”

“I’m fine,” Karita breathed back; and she was.


	13. Ribbon. (Firsthold, Auridon 4e163)

“What--” Taarie cut herself off, feeling foolish. It was quite evident what the thing was for; it was a ribbon marked with uneven gradations. 

“Your measure, of course,” said Endarie, with impeccable demeanor. “I’ve had it all along.” As she stroked her long fingers along it, Taarie felt her ears growing warm. “As you know; or ought to know, it… hmm. Changes over time, particularly if there are alterations in one’s circumstances.”

Taarie preferred not to discuss the most obvious of such circumstances. She cleared her throat. “Shall we go up to the sewing room, then, or would you prefer the solar?”

Being at the top of the house, the sewing room held much less risk of interruption. On the other hand, the solar adjoined Taarie’s bedroom and bathing-chamber, so a swift retreat was possible; and just at this time Taarie had the best of all possible excuses.

Endarie’s arms looped around her from behind. Taarie could feel her smile, pressed against her side, as she pulled the ribbon taut. She ought to feel herself in Aetherius, but just now all she could muster was a weary sort of grumpiness; she was so bloated and uncomfortable.

“There we are,” said Endarie, softly. Her thumbnail traced in a crease, marking the new measurement. “Stop fretting so much. Why should any of this make a difference, for us?” She inked in the line and turned away from the desk, to coil the ribbon up in her valise.

“I look awful,” Taarie sulked.

Endarie tsk’d. “Even were that true; this is the purpose of my art,” she warned. “When you leave these rooms, you will look elegant.”

“As you say, madame.” Taarie sank down onto her chair and gusted a sigh. She endured the effort of putting her feet up; regarded the bloated sacks that had been her ankles, and groaned. No delicate slippers traced ‘round with goosedown for her, now. She could barely manage shoes at all.

“Gods,” she groaned. “Four more formal dinners and then that damned garden-party; and then my mother-in-law says I’ve got to go to Elusie’s ball. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to be carried in, in my great-great grandmother’s chair.” She lifted a hand to make a crude gesture, and then dropped it. She was so tired.

Taarie expected chastisement, but instead Endarie circled around behind the chair, and touched a cool hand to her cheek. “Not much longer,” Endarie murmured. “You can bear it.” 

Her lips brushed delicately against Taarie’s closed eyelids; and then up the line of her ear.


	14. Lazy (Windhelm, Eastmarch 4e201)

PRIVATE PROPERTY OF SUVARIS ̶A̶T̶H̶E̶R̶O̶N̶ VENDICCI

PLEASE RETURN TO HER ̶I̶N̶ ̶W̶I̶N̶D̶H̶E̶L̶M̶ AT EETC OFFICE JEHANNA IF FOUND 

Journal for month of Last Seed, year 201 of the 4th Era

1st of Last Seed  
Spoke with Master Torbjorn in the morning. Pleased with projects to increase competitiveness of shipping office.  
Spent afternoon overseeing offices and various paperworks.  
Moderate lunch and heavy dinner.

2nd of Last Seed  
Punished one of the dockworkers for laziness. Two days rations -- empty stomach means less good work for a few days, but he'll work hard from here on out.  
Moderate lunch and dinner.

3rd of Last Seed  
Correspondence with Uncle Mithorpa in Morrowind. Sadness continues to abound flowing west.  
Light lunch, no dinner.

4th of Last Seed  
Reports that our pirate friends are offering to let the Company ships through in exchange for gold. Will need to look into this.  
Heavy lunch and dinner.

5th of Last Seed  
Tried to get in to see Master Torbjorn about the potential issues, but he proved too busy tending to his wife and daughter in mourning. Did not wish to intrude.  
Skipped lunch (waiting at the Shatter-Shield house), moderate dinner.

6th of Last Seed  
Explained situation to Master Torbjorn. As usual he did not wish to know details, only how much money I needed to ensure smooth operations. I depart tomorrow for Dawnstar, hoping to catch the captain at the Windpeak for his crew's regular "festivities."  
Heavy lunch, skipped dinner in favor of packing.

7th of Last Seed  
Beginning journey. Plan to be back by the 12th.

15th of Last Seed  
Returned safely, though not unscathed. Bandit attacks delayed the initial travel, then Stig Salt-Plank proved to be more uncooperative than I had hoped. Chipped in some additional gold out of my own purse (some cleverness in the books will see it repaid), and the deal was done.  
Ate on the road, light meals all around.

16th of Last Seed  
Hoping word gets back to Stig's betters of our new arrangements before more Company ships can make it through. Found the Argonians had completely fouled up the operations in my absence. No surprise, there. Need to see to the old one's skooma supply, that should keep them motivated.  
Heavy lunch and dinner.

[Note multiple missing entries to be later transcribed.]

Journal for month of Heartfire, year 201 of the 4th Era

[Note multiple missing entries to be later transcribedl.]

19th of Heartfire  
Journal returned to me today by Orthus Endario and Adelaisa Vendicci of the East Empire Company, both greatly upset. Advised EEtC that payments to pirates have stopped; but that Shatter-Shields were not only trade House in same predicament. Told by Endario that the Blood Horkers has stymied EEC shipping “from Vvardenfell to Hammerfell”-- this seems inconsistent with my prior estimates. When he left the room briefly, Vendicci referred to him as ‘lazy’ as warehouse is dirty and barren-- much more so than can be explained by shipment loss. I advised Vendicci of discrepancies between Endario's statements and the Shatter-Shield House's experiences before Endario returned. She seems intrigued.  
No lunch (meeting in office).  
Moderate dinner.

20th of Heartfire  
Reviewed Shatter-Shield shipping records of East Empire Company goods for the past fifteen months. Visited Viola Giordano to make inquiries; she served rose hip tea. Giordano indicates shipping disrupted for the past four months; but only for shipments originating out of Wrothgar. Other EEtC shipping unaffected per Giordano, which is consistent with my observations. She confirms Vendicci’s overall opinion of Endario and relates other suspicions.  
Heavy lunch (Giordano residence).  
Light dinner.

21st of Heartfire  
Gave preliminary report to Master Torbjorn at shipping office; he requests full accounting. Inspected docks; morale seems to have improved slightly with the cooler weather. Invited Vendicci to supper (upstairs room Cornerclub, ash yam stew, roast pork loin, summer greens, sujamma).  
Skipped lunch (dockside visit).  
Heavy dinner.

22 Heartfire  
Worked on accounting project for Master Torbjorn.  
Light meals (at desk).

23 Heartfire  
Worked on accounting project for Master Torbjorn. Reviewed correspondence from Viola Giordano; spoke with Vendicci; wrote requests for information to Vittoria Vici and Asgeir Snow-Shod in Riften and Duke Dren’s steward in New Ebonheart.  
Working lunch at Candlehearth with Vendicci, moderate meal.  
Light dinner.

24 Heartfire  
Final accounting of pirate venture presented to Master Torbjorn. Septims: a wash. House reputation: increased by carrying exclusive goods; decreased by rumors of involvement with pirates. Torbjorn advises no more remittance shall be paid despite threat of embargo. Master Torbjorn orders increased wages to Argonians; I will transfer line item (unpaid remittance) to cover for rest of this month. Concerning.  
Heavy lunch (at Shatter-Shield residence).  
No dinner.

25 Heartfire  
At dockside with Master Torbjorn to announce wage increase to dockworkers; he states Friga (deceased daughter) told him to do it. Brief conversation with Tova and Nilsine Shatter-Shield, they voice no concerns in regards to Master Torbjorn’s health or mental acuity. Nilsine suggests investing in small dockside market for benefit of dockworkers, to recoup expenditure. Discussion with Argonian elders. Master Torbjorn will have Nilsine calculate startup costs.  
No lunch (dockside).  
Heavy dinner (Argonian Assemblage).

26 Heartfire  
Received correspondence from Vittoria Vici denying shipment disruption on their end. Logs of communication with Endario attached. Received correspondence from Morrowind. Meeting with Master Torbjorn and Vendicci.  
Lunch moderate, no dinner.

27 Heartfire  
Received correspondence from Asgeir Snow-Shod confirming reported shipment disruption to Snow-Shod and Black-Briar. Correspondence from Maven Black-Briar attached.  
Light lunch (walk with Vendicci).  
Moderate dinner

28 Heartfire  
Planning session with Vendicci. Meeting: Master Torbjorn, Steward Jorluf, Jarl Ulfric, Vendicci, Giordano. Closed shipping office and went home early per Master Torbjorn’s directive.  
Heavy lunch (Palace of the Kings).  
Light dinner.

29 Heartfire  
Woken before dawn by Vendicci: Raid on Endario residence and hidden warehouse a total success. Goods being inventoried by Steward Jorluf and Giordano. Endario's books and logs have been recovered. Met with Nilsine in regards to canteen and sundries shop proposal. Spent evening at Vendicci residence in celebration and the wine flowed freely.  
Light lunch.  
Heavy dinner.

30 Heartfire  
Endario has been an EEtC/Windhelm factor since 4e190; pulled all records from storage and began review. Spent evening at Vendicci residence.  
No lunch.  
Moderate dinner (Vendicci residence).

Journal for month of Frostfall, year 201 of the 4th Era

1 Frostfall  
Meeting at Shatter-Shields; Argonian workers to handle new canteen and sundries shop. Nilsine in better spirits. Spent evening at Vendicci residence.  
Skipped lunch, working at Shatter-Shield residence; moderate dinner.

2 Frostfall  
Record review ongoing. Finding multiple discrepancies. Spent night at Candlehearth Hall.  
No lunch (minor hassle on street; Rolff Stone-Fist; reported to authorities).  
Heavy dinner (Candlehearth Hall).

3 Frostfall  
Record review ongoing. Quiet supper at Vendicci’s residence; spent evening.  
Light lunch, moderate dinner.

4 Frostfall  
Review of Argonian dockworkers. Morale substantially improved. No injuries. Canteen will open in one week as construction is substantially complete. Productivity up thirty percent except for worker who has been repeatedly punished for laziness; his employment has been terminated. Sent log of Shatter-Shield losses to Giordano. Walk with Vendicci disrupted by Stone-Fist gang; returned to Cornerclub. Spent night at Cornerclub.  
Moderate lunch (Argonian Assemblage); light supper (Cornerclub, Vendicci too upset to eat.)

5 Frostfall  
Meeting with Vendicci and Master Torbjorn regarding Stone-Fist gang incidents. Master Torbjorn insists on sworn statement. Vici venture authorized; Torbjorn believes it best for Vendicci and myself to leave Eastmarch in the interim.  
Skipped lunch, waiting on steward’s notary.  
No dinner, packing.

6 Frostfall  
Embarked Sea-Witch. Delay casting off due to problem with fishing boats. Vendicci says this weather is not alarming.  
Moderate lunch; skipped dinner (feeling unwell).

7 Frostfall  
Unwell on voyage. Passed Lady Azura, all praise to her. No meals.

8 Frostfall  
Weather calming; still unwell. Vendicci worried.  
Skipped lunch; light dinner (broth).

9 Frostfall  
Passed Dawnstar Harbor. Entering Empire-controlled waters soon. Vendicci has papers in order. Sea calm.  
Light lunch and dinner.

10 Frostfall  
Voyage uneventful. Vendicci family holdings apparently quite far-flung. Stayed up late to watch shooting stars.  
Light lunch.  
Moderate dinner.

11 Frostfall  
Anchored off Karth outlet; can see Blue Palace dome from here. Waiting for clearance to enter harbor.  
Light lunch; light dinner.

12 Frostfall  
Toured EEC warehouse and headquarters with Vittoria Vici. Booked in at Winking Skeever with Vendicci; note housing expenditure should be halved.  
Moderate lunch and heavy dinner (Vici residence).

13 Frostfall  
Meeting with Vici and Haafingar thanes Bryling and Erikur in regards to nonembargoed goods. Restricted-list items enumerated. Erikur hints at possible new route opening to Alinor; exotic pelts, alchemy goods; spices; silk.  
Heavy lunch (Bryling residence).  
No dinner.

14 Frostfall  
Received letter via courier regarding Rolff Stone-Fist unpleasantness. No wergeld owed, fault-finding in our favor; but no display of head beyond two weeks as per jarl’s fiat. So advised Vendicci. Hosted impromptu party at Winking Skeever.  
Heavy lunch (Blue Palace).  
Moderate dinner (Winking Skeever).

15 Frostfall  
Indisposed.  
No meals.

16 Frostfall  
Vendicci suggests holiday. Garden walk through Blue Palace grounds. Much surprise. Quiet night in at the Winking Skeever.  
Light lunch; skipped dinner.

17 Frostfall  
Comprehensive review of personal expenditures; Vendicci somewhat interfering. Visit to Radiant Rainment; measurements taken. Note: cut down on meals; suggestion of Dawnstar as much less costly and more immediate than Riften.  
Light lunch; skipped dinner.

18 Frostfall  
Further consideration. Family unlikely to approve regardless of brothers’ opinion. Windhelm is a stew of unpleasantness.  
Heavy lunch.  
Heavy dinner.

19 Frostfall  
Correspondence sent to Faryl and Aval at home. Correspondence sent to Master Torbjorn. Began work on draft of Vici and Shatter-Shield trade agreement. Spent evening working on c.v. per Vendicci suggestion.  
Skipped lunch.  
Moderate dinner.

[Note multiple missing entries to be later transcribed.]

Journal for month of Rain’s Hand, year 204 of the 4th Era

[Note multiple missing entries to be later transcribed.]

3 Rain’s Hand  
Wet weather continues. Saw healing priest today; still feeling v. sick. Priest advises all is going well but advises no heavy lifting and no long walks. Reviewed site plan and returned to drafter with multiple revisions. Correspondence sent to Solitude headquarters requesting that bid be re-scrutinized. Vendicci will be home late.  
Light lunch.  
Light dinner.

4 Rain’s Hand  
Received correspondence from family today; Atheron family coming around. Faryl and Aval report that they will be here by Midsummer regardless. Vendicci family remains obdurate. Discouraging. Vedicci does not like name ‘Friga’ but sees obvious benefit to continued association with Shatter-Shield house.  
Heavy lunch, no dinner.


	15. Make Up (Dawnstar, The Pale, Sun's Height 4e203)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erdi tutoring Karita in Dawnstar, after Erdi's spent some time as an adventurer.

“Look up,” Erdi instructed. “Don’t move your eyes at all. Just keep looking up.” 

“Oooh, that feels cold,” said Karita, trying hard not to blink. “Where did you get it?”

“Don’t cry!” Erdi took the linen cloth and dabbed carefully at the welling tears. “Hold still a bit till it dries.”

Karita squinted at herself in the bronze disk; at the heavy dark lines. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?”

“Oh, no,” said Erdi. “Not if you’re going to be the star performer. You need to make your face up to stand out.” Her hands began to move, skating over Karita’s bare ribs.

Karita laughed, nervously. “I think it’s too much! I’m not sure I want to go out all painted up like this--” she gasped. Erdi’s thumb had found its mark.

“Oh? Go out? Not us,” Erdi said, thoughtfully, hand still working as Karita began to shudder and twist like a salmon caught on a line. “We’re staying in.”


	16. Ocean. (Firsthold, Auridon 4e166)

“If there is one sentiment shared amongst the castes and classes, it is that it is difficult to find respite from the burdens of one’s station.” Taarie’s mother-in-law bit the thread off rather than snip it, at the last stitch; a thing that countrywomen did for luck.

Taarie winced, seeing that. She put up a hand to check her hair, and bent to her own work. Even at their level, there was household sewing to be done. She finished the last seam, carefully buried the thread, and reached for the snips on the low table. Trying not to think of the amused voice and skilled hands that had guided hers: “Not quite like that, my dear.” Taarie had been an indifferent needlework student as a child; it was just as well she had had later remedial lessons. She elected to stay focused on that thought, on those firm hands guiding her stitches, showing her how to hold the seam flat. Not on what those hands...

“There,” Taarie said. “That’s all done. I find myself not quite in the spirit of luncheon; I think I will go down and take exercise on the beach.”

The oyster-white sand swept a great curve out near as far as the horizon, and it puffed soft under Taarie’s bare feet. The shallow waters reflected a brilliant aquamarine against the sand. There seemed no other mer out here for miles; and all that Taarie could hear was the water, and the intermittent call of birds. Something brushed her foot and she bent to pluck it from the sand. A perfect shell, shaded in pink and mauve, long since cleansed by the sand. She tucked it into a pocket and continued onwards, all the way up to the point; where one could see the lighter waters of the bay shading to the murkier hues of the ocean.

She sat down on a flat rock to watch the water change under the light, but there were no answers here.


	17. Competition. (College of Winterhold, Winterhold, 4e203)

“This is not,” Faralda was saying… “A competition. You are here to learn, not to score points off the other students. Do you understand me?”

They were all standing in a ragged semicircle around Master Faralda, Nirya along with the new students. 

“Yes, Master Faralda,” said some of the students.

“Ass,” Nirya mouthed at J’zargo. 

He flicked his tail, rudely. 

It wasn’t fair. J’zargo was the cocky show-off. Why was Nirya always being called on carpet for his behavior? Faralda had it in for her, that was why. Someone had rifled through Nirya’s lecture notes again.

She watched Faralda through narrowed eyes. I’ll get you, Nirya thought.


	18. Blush. (Firsthold, Auridon 4e168)

“Well?” Taarie shot right back. “What do you think it reminded me of?”

Endarie looked up at her, her lips curving back in that not-quite smirk. Then she brought the sea-shell to her lips and--

“Stop that!” Taarie’s face was crimson. She found herself having to lower her voice: “Everyone is home.” Taarie couldn't rid the house of servants and family every time that the tailor came calling; that would be suspicious.

“Hmm, so I shall keep on?” murmured Endarie. “Since this is all I’m going to get?” The tip of her tongue emerged, a match for the glistening shell, and Taarie squirmed in her chair. 

Endarie never broke eye contact. 

After a few moments Endarie relented and went to her valise to put the shell away, wrapping it up carefully in a bit of pink silk. “Thank you for the gift. It will serve as a lovely aide to memory at home." 

When she straightened fully, Taarie could see no more of Endarie in her; just the severe tailor. A disapproving expression had come to shadow her face: 

"So. I recognize that is a boudoir chair, but you need to stop slouching like an Imga if you're going to be wearing my clothes. Stand straight and walk towards me. As I thought. That hem needs adjusting.”


	19. Another World. (Angi's Camp, Falkreath Hold 4e204)

“Show yourself! If you try anything stupid, I won’t hesitate to put an arrow in your head.” 

The warning voice echoed down the mountain, and Illia couldn’t tell where it was coming from. She scuttled a few steps into the clearing and displayed her hands, palm up. Her pack slid from her shoulders to drag at her elbows and after a couple of painful seconds she had to drop it. It wasn’t just the weight; the improvised straps had scraped cruelly across her raw sunburn. Her skin felt like a trout’s, crisped from the fire. Now that she was still, she felt dizzy. Her calves burned from the climb. She tried to look around, but all she could see was trees and underbrush.

Would taking a drink get her shot? Her waterskin was at her hip. Illia wasn’t sure that she should even try. Her heart was still hammering in her chest from the climb up here.

“Calm down! All-- all I have is a dagger,” she called. “I don’t-- I don’t hurt people.” The wind riffled the nearby trees, like the sound of feathers brushing against stone. 

Memory slammed into Illia again, and she dropped to her knees.

_“Greetings, mother. I found a willing subject for you. Payment has already been discussed, of course.”_

Illia shuddered all over, causing her to shiver convulsively from the sunburn. 

“Stay put,” said the voice, much closer now. The woman ran forward, grabbed Silivia’s pack, and ran back behind the cover of the underbrush. A few moments later: “You have nothing of use here. What were you even trying to do?”

“Leave this place,” said Illia, gesturing south. Or, at least, the direction she thought was south. "All I want to do is get out of this place. Find another world to live in."

“Were you trying to get to Bruma? You’re several miles away from Pale Pass, even if you were able to get through. It’s been closed since Helgen was destroyed. Do you have kin there?”

“I don't know! I don’t even know.” Illia slumped even further. “Maybe? My mother always said we were Imperial citizens. I just thought if I went there, maybe I could find something-- Why are you taking my things? That’s all I have!”

“Sorry.” The woman began to put everything back, folding up Illia’s spare shirt and tucking it away. She tossed the pack back towards Illia. “A girl can’t be too careful out here. Name’s Angi. I’ve been living out here a couple years now. Alone. You have to stay vigilant.” She grinned. “Some folks see a woman alone, they think they’ve got the advantage. They chose the wrong girl to mess with.” 

Illia thought it was safe to take a drink.

Angi winced. “Look at that, you don’t even hardly have any water left. Come with me.”

\--

“No, trust me, you need to keep that on,” said Angi. “Look at you! Never seen anyone so sunburned. You look like you haven’t seen the sun in a hundred years.”

“It felt like it.” Illia hissed as Angi brought the wet cloth down again. A warm, calloused hand began to pet her hair as the tears leaked out from under her eyelids, stinging her burning face further. “It was only about ten,” she whispered. 

The hand traced its way down her cheek, around her jaw, to her chin. “Ten _years_? So how old are you now?”

Illia’s eyes widened. All that time with the hags, with the hagravens. The papery feel of her own skin. “Do I look... old?”

Angi dribbled a little more cold water down the part of her hair, making her gasp. “Only your eyes,” she said. “The look in your eyes could be a thousand years old.”

\--

Neither of them were used to being with other people; with talking. Many times Illia found herself going up to Angi-- her lips would part, but she had nothing to say. Angi didn’t mind quiet. Angi would trace fingertips over Illia’s mouth and smile. 

No matter. Anything Illia really needed to say she could say at night, in silence, on top of the heaped furs; and later, beneath them. 

\--

Angi’s breath puffed out of her like the white smoke from the chimney, billowing about her in the extreme cold. She tucked her axe into her belt. Illia took a double-armful of wood. Angi grabbed the rest of it, and they carried it down to the rack. Angi stepped back and turned around to vigorously brush herself off, and gasped. She took Illia by her shoulders and turned her, so that they looked southward, past the snow-and-ice glitter of trees; over the endless snow-drifted peaks of the Jeralls, just as the the low-slanting sun broke through clouds, burnishing it all with crystalline gold. 

“See there?” she murmured, pressing a kiss onto the part of Illia’s hair. “You have your wish. Another world.”


	20. Combat (Whiterun Hold, 4e198)

The Bannered Mare was humming tonight. Nimriel took her mug and cautiously made her way past a group of off-duty guardsmen. “Ow!” she cried, as someone stepped on her foot.

Your pardon,” called Andurs, over his shoulder. One of the apprentices from the Temple of Kynareth had ahold of his sleeve and was towing the Arkay priest along. Skjor of the Companions was right behind them, looking grim.

Nimriel abandoned thoughts of sitting near the crowded firepit and cut past a couple of overly-loud hunters, seeking the quiet table at the far end, the one that was unpopular because it was right by the door to the kitchen.

Mikael was sitting there, talking earnestly to a Nord woman with a scarred cheek. Damn. Someone’s shoulder bumped against Nimriel, shoving hard enough that she had to take a couple of steps to regain her balance.

“Sorry to intrude,” she said, dropping into the last open chair. “Let me finish this, and then I’ll go. Too busy in here for my taste.”

Mikael made a noise to acknowledge her presence. 

The woman didn’t even glance over. They were still holding each other’s hands. 

Since Nimriel didn’t want to stare up at the stranger’s face, she got a good look at those hands. Broad as a sell-sword’s, with the swollen and battered knuckles you might expect from a woman who made a living with her fists. A moment’s listening convinced her that he wasn’t after seduction; he was talking to the brawler as soothingly as if he were calming a frightened child.

“Why?” the brawler was saying, anguished. “Why did they tell me to prove myself and then set me up against such a young whelp? Did they think I wasn’t strong enough for them? He barely had his chin-whiskers-- I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Her voice dropped even further. “I think I killed him.”

Mikael said: “You don’t know that. He’s still in with Danica.”

“Yes, but--” the woman took in Nimriel’s presence, and rather stiffly excused herself.

“My mother's oldest sister's daughter Uthgerd,” said Mikael. “My cousin came up here to join the Companions, but that didn’t go so well.” He sighed. “No matter. There’s always work for sell-swords. Makes me glad I’m a bard.”

\--

Nimriel came up near the fence, to watch Uthgerd ride by, on a black horse that looked to be far more expensive than most folk around here could buy. Steel armor and the barding that went with it; a steel greatsword at her back and a bow on the saddle. She acknowledged Nimriel’s greeting-wave in kind, but her face stayed grim. On her way towards some unpleasant task the Companions had turned down, no doubt.

Nimriel had heard about what had happened. The young Companion had in fact died, and to a man the rest of Jorrvaskr had denied Uthgerd entry. So she’d bought a house in town, and let it be known that she was also available for sellsword contracts. The whole business hadn’t sweetened Uthgerd's temper at all. The patrons of the Bannered Mare had learned to walk wide around the unhappy young woman with the scarred face and the steel armor.

\--

“Don’t try to sit up,” Nimriel advised. “Here, hold onto this.”

Uthgerd grunted, softly. She clasped her hand around the chunk of ice-wrapped-in-linen, and held it to the cut.

“I found you when your horse came to my water-trough,” said Nimriel. “I don’t know how you kept asaddle, all slumped over like that. Are you in a lot of pain? What hurts?”

“Just the head,” whispered Uthgerd, her eyes closing against the firelight.

\--

“Said I was too hot-headed,” Uthgerd said. “Cowards, the whole lot of them. I told them, over and over again-- it was an accident! I didn’t want him to die-- why would I ever want that?”

“Battle-fever.” Nimriel got up to pour them both more of the redflower tisane. “You just lost control.”

“Like some fool kid.” Uthgerd took up her cup again, glum. “The Harbinger said if I couldn’t tell the difference between full-on combat and sparring, that I was not fit for their warband, so that’s that.” She set the cup down and began to do up the cuff of her shirt. “My thanks. I should probably be moving on home while I still can and there’s still light. These bruises are going to stiffen up something fierce.” She brushed at her pants to get rid of the crumbs. “Thanks for not pulling my armor all to pieces.”

Lacking an armor stand, Nimriel had stacked it all neatly against the wall.

“Eat some more,” Nimriel said. “You need it. And I was in the Legion. You learn how armor works.”

“You?!” Uthgerd didn’t quite scoff.

“Don’t go thinking everyone you meet was always just a farmer,” said Nimriel. “This is going back nearly fifty years. Where I come from, in Valenwood, it was join up or--” she made a face. “Once a town was known for harboring Cyrodiil sympathizers, the Dominion would move back in,” she said. “Making things unpleasant.”

“Those purges,” Uthgerd said.

“What?” Nimriel put down the cookie. “No, I wouldn’t believe those rumors, my friend. I never heard anything about any of that till after I came up to Skyrim-- and it’s always something that’s happened to a friend of a cousin of a friend, if you know what I mean. Nothing like that. It was just that questions got asked and people were watched and contacts and trade deals had to be approved and then logged three times over." She finished off the last few bites and dusted free the crumbs. "My mother complained that the paperwork was never-ceasing.”

“Huh,” said Uthgerd. She picked at a few crumbs, evidently still not hungry.

“On reflection maybe a Thalmor purge would’ve been less invasive,” said Nimriel. “One and done. It didn’t look like much fun, hiring on with the Dominion. And I was the third of ten kids, so the Legion looked like my only ticket to move up and out. I joined up as a scout.”

“Seems like it worked out okay for you,” said Uthgerd. “Nice little farm.”

“Not so much, I fear.” Nimriel took the last cake. “I keep it up, but it isn’t mine. Severio Pelagia’s.”

Uthgerd grunted. A few seconds later, she rubbed at her brow, just above the cut.

“I think you should stay,” Nimriel said.

“Matilda!” Uthgerd tried to get to her feet, wavered, and sat back down. “I forgot about her.”

“Stabled in my cowshed for now,” said Nimriel. “I got her unsaddled and rubbed down, and put some hay and water out for her. I saw you didn’t have much feed left for her, but I gave her what there was. Does she need anything else?”

They went outside, Uthgerd wincing with each step, so that she could pat down the mare and ensure for herself that there were no injuries.

“I was worried,” said Uthgerd. “She took down one of those bastards all on her own.” She spit. “Filthy bandits.” 

“Did you get them all?” asked Nimriel.

“Gods know,” said Uthgerd. “Hope so.” She looked uneasily up the road. “You know what, it’s possible someone could have backtrailed me. I think I will stay here. Where are my weapons?”

That same road led right past the fully-staffed Western Watchtower, full of Jarl Balgruuf’s men-- but it was clear that Uthgerd still wasn’t tracking well. Nimriel coaxed her back inside.

It took some talking, but Uthgerd agreed to take the bed, because it was that much closer to the door than the loft above. Nimriel took some pillows and blankets up the ladder and made a small nest for herself, listening. The failed Companion’s breath sounded rough and quick even in her sleep-- she was still in significant pain. Keeping an ear tipped towards her in case of need, Nimriel slept.

\--

Oh, she shouldn't have, but Nimriel _hoped_.

\--

“Well that’s a new one,” said Olfina Gray-Mane, wiping down the table beside theirs. “Someone’s actually come to Mikael for his advice on the ladies.”

Saadia was sweeping nearby: “Doubt he expected it’d be another lady, and an elf at that.” She bent to gather her sweepings and rose. “Poor Mikael, I bet he expected to start a little cocksman’s club and instead all he’s going to get is women weeping all over him because they’ve got girlfriend troubles--”

“Will you two shut up--” Mikael snapped.

“Or what?” Saadia folded up the cloth around the crumbs and began to walk away. “Or you’ll put us in your next book?” She dropped her voice. “Thanks for the extra tips, by the way.” She rolled her hips as she walked away, drawing their gaze like a lodestone. Nimriel flushed and looked away.

Mikael kept staring until Nimriel swatted him. He had such good advice, sometimes. But such bad manners.

“Your friend’s not going to put me in that book,” Olfina declared. “Uncle Vignar’ll have him hung up for Companions’ target practice.”

“It’s all right,” said Nimriel, to Mikael’s furious embarrassment. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just thought that since she’s your cousin, you might know her better--” She sighed. “All that anger, it’s just all-consuming. It worries me.”

Mikael nodded. He ate a few bites more of the ham.

“I’ve been in that situation before,” Nimriel volunteered, suddenly. “Someone like that. I thought, maybe if they had a place to settle down, a good and kind lover-- that it would change things for them, you know?”

“Not sure it works like that,” said Mikael, thoughtfully. 

“It never did.” Nimriel drank her own mead. “I had to pick up and leave in the middle of the night. Cost me everything. I just-- I just don’t want to be going through all that again.” She laughed, bitterly. “Now I'm just another tenant farmer. It kind of stings a bit. And here I am again. Every little disagreement and the two of us-- we go straight to combat. We’re either just fine... or it’s open war.”

Mikael sat up in his chair and made a gesture towards Olfina: more mead, because they were going to need it.

“I just don’t know,” he said. “This all sounds like a lot more trouble than it ought to be, so early on. That’s a lot to think about. So if it were up to me to say, I just don’t think my cousin’s the woman for you. You ought to trust your instincts.”


	21. Love. (Narzulbur Stronghold, Eastmarch, 4e 200)

“He’s got another one in mind,” said Yatul, coming up to stand next to her wife on the wall.

Bolar sighed. “What is this? The sixth time? The tenth? I can’t keep up.”

“Feh. Our nephew says he wants to be a leader, but he spends all his time moping over women.”

Bolar turned to regard her Yatul; her wife, her sister-wife that had been, back in the days when Narzulbur’d had a real orc chieftan. Yatul’s gaze softened under that look of love. Bolar drank in the sight of her, the long bronze-colored braids that were still thick and bright as ever, the softness of her gray-green skin just there, at the creases of her dark eyes, and sighed. She was so lucky. It made her feel sorry for--

“Mauhulakh’s lonely,” she said. “What do you expect?”

Yatul scoffed. “That what it is?”

“He’s been spending a lot of time up at the graves again, just standing and staring,” said Bolar. “I think--”

“Weakness,” growled Yatul. “Orc chiefs should be strong and stand alone.”

Four gravestones stood amid the snowberry bushes and the bee-skeps; a tribute to Bolar’s skill with the pestle. So much skill, that their nephew Mauhulakh had never suspected a thing. It hurt Bolar’s heart to watch him standing up there, mourning. But it had been needful, Yatul'd said.

“What happens if he does show up with another bride?” Bolar demanded.

“Then you know what to do.” Yatul’s eyes had gone flinty again.

Bolar lifted her chin. “Once she’s with child, I will not harm her.” 

“That’s how we got Urog and Dushnamub. Weak children who squander their father’s love. So no dallying.”

“Please. Let’s not have it come to that,” said Bolar, hurriedly. “I don’t want to have to--”

“True,” mused Yatul. “We should arrange for things to happen before she ever reaches Narzulbur. Much less trouble. For me, for you.” She touched the bow cased at her side.

Bolar groaned discontent and agreement, and Yatul kissed her. She turned her face upwards to savor it, her arm coming up to cradle Bolar’s hips. They stood for a long moment like that, listening to the wind whistling down the mountainside, stirring the pines. 

“It’s just-- I felt so sorry for him, when I saw him yesterday. Just standing there, looking down at the gravestones, and his face--” Bolar pressed her face into that warm neck, seeking comfort. “He put snowberries on Galka’s resting place again. I think he really did love--”

“Wives be damned. We’re the only ones our nephew loves,” said Yatul, with great assurance. “The only ones he needs to love. Me, and you.”


	22. Glass. (Markarth, The Treasury House 4e204)

Rhiada rounded the corner.

Betrid took a step back and pretended that she had not been staring at herself: “Rhiada! This glass is disgusting. Can’t you see these spots? Do I have to get Ildene to do everything around--”

“I’m sorry, Betrid! I’ll… I’ll get to it right away.” The young woman scurried off to find the rags and vinegar.

Betrid returned her attention to the mirror. There was a shadow...no. She touched her face. A crease. She could see where the lines of disaffection and petulance were beginning to warp her expression. Soon her face would be drawn in and she would look like a crone. A hagraven.

Betrid took a long breath, forcing all of the muscles of her face to relax.

“I thought I had cleaned it properly,” said Rhiada, breathlessly. Betrid moved out of the way to let her work.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought I had cleaned it properly…” the girl’s voice was low, but no less frantic for all that. Her hands were shaking badly enough that she nearly dropped the damp rag.

“Stop apologizing,” snapped Betrid. “It makes you look like an idiot.” Rhiada flinched again, and Betrid softened her voice to honey. “Learn to talk back a bit, girl! Why, when I was in the temple....” 

"The temple, Betrid? You were one of Dibella's faithful?" 

Betrid startled, as she felt the little whisper of the goddess. She bit her tongue against ‘Never mind what I said’ and watched the Breton at work. Betrid hadn’t missed that worshipful glance. And, now that she looked, she could see the edge of a Dibellan amulet peeking out from under Rhiada’s scarf.

“Past time for me to make an offering again,” Betrid said, more thoughtfully. “I’ll go up there tomorrow. You can come along."

Rhiada's face expressed anxiety and doubt.

I need someone to carry the baskets,” Betrid added, to make her easy again.


	23. Ice. (Windhelm, Eastmarch 4e201.)

“Stop!” 

Idresa Sadri ignored the merchant and kept plodding along, her footsteps breaking through the thin rime of ice that glazed the cobblestones. Nords causing trouble again, no news there. She would move to the side of the road and go on by. It was nearly dawn; she needed to get back to her employer’s home.

“Hey!” She tugged her arm away from the panting Altmer.

“No!” Niranye managed. “Don’t… don’t go that way.” She pointed at the dark dapples, that led away from the gate. “The guards are already there, but it’s too late. You don’t want to see what happened.”

“Who?

“Susannah,” said Niranye, still out of breath. “You’re not going to be able to get through to the market now, they’re going house-to-house.”

Chilly rain began to patter down. Idresa sneezed.

“We’re nearly at Candlehearth,” Niranye urged. “Come. Sit with me for a bit until the sun comes up and more people are about.”


	24. Sword. (Markarth, The Warrens, 4e205)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muiri had a bad time when she first came to Markarth, and Cairine took her in and looked after her, but now it seems their roles are reversed.

“I swear to you, I will put a sword right through that Shatter-Shield woman’s smug heart!”

Cairine was leaning forward, propped on her hands, trying to mitigate the force of the cough. She chose not to answer Muiri; the only answers she could give would anger Muiri further, and might even keep her from bringing Cairine-- she drew a long whistling breath. 

“Did you bring it?”

“Oh!” Muiri’s blue eyes refocused. “Sorry, that’s the whole reason I came down. Here. Bothela had me put in the pickled spider tongue this time. She said it’ll taste worse, but work better.” She handed Cairine a little stone cup. “Three of these right now, then one at dawn and two at sunset.” She frowned and looked around Cairine’s little niche, carved out of the rock of the Warrens. A couple of straw mats; a worn sheepskin rug and an old blanket; a beggar’s bowl and a battered, handleless tankard. A tiny, worn handbroom. Her fingers prodded at Cairine’s protruding ribs. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Yes, of course,” Cairine lied. “It’s just that it goes right through me.” The last thing that she wanted was for Muiri to give her money out of her meager salary. Muiri would need it all, for when the Dark Brotherhood came. Woe betide those who performed the Black Sacrament with no money to back it up.

Muiri looked so pretty, so fresh and clean in her new wool apron-dress; in that carefully pinned headscarf that brought out the color in her eyes. Even the pins had little copper beads that dangled, for decoration. Cairine sipped at the medicine slowly even though it was dreadful, just to look at her longer.

Cairine’s stomach growled. 

“I have some bread and cheese if you want it,” Muiri tempted. 

“It’s all right,” she said hastily. “I don’t need any--”

“I’ll split it with you,” Muiri offered. “I haven’t had lunch yet. Oh look, Bothela packed me a bit of honeycomb!” She went to fill Cairine’s tankard with well-water and came back to sit beside her on the blanket, carefully splitting the loaf in half. “It doesn’t cost me anything,” she admonished. “So eat.” 

She sat back on her heels, watching Cairine take careful bites, and looked around the reeking cave of the Warrens. “You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I almost miss it, staying down here with you. I wish I could find you a job. Then you could come up top with me.”

Just then, the sweet of the honeycomb rolled over one of Cairine’s broken teeth, jolting her with pain. She tried not to flinch at that; at the pain that was still jabbing at her insides, splitting her apart. If Cairine came up to the shop, with her knotted and filthy hair, she’d be lucky if the worst Bothela did was run her off with a broom. She’d be lucky if she made it up the first set of stone steps without fainting. The bite she’d taken was too greedy, too large. 

With some work, Cairine managed to swallow it, over the lump in her throat.

Muiri was still looking at her with those clear blue-sky eyes; as dazzling as the sun could be the few times Cairine dared come up out of the cave.

“That’d sure be nice,” Cairine said, wistful. 

She coughed again and the pain lanced through her, sharp as that threatened sword.


	25. Candle. (Windhelm, Eastmarch 4e201.)

“But how are you holding up?” asked the sea-captain, worry in his eyes.

Elda slapped the plate together quickly; a boiled egg, some pickled ramps, a wedge of dark-yellow cheese; a lump of butter and a dollop of snowberry jam; two slices of still-steaming barley bread. “There you are,” she said, brusquely. “Don’t you worry about me. Get yourself fed and go up and get some sleep. Looks like you could use your rest.” 

She went back into the little store-room where he couldn’t see, and used her apron to dab at the corners of her eyes.

_My girlfriend died. Things won’t be the same without her._

Later, as she riddled the fire for ashes, she looked up. This late, the room held no onlookers. The bards had long since gone silent; put up their instruments and left; three or four of them in company. No woman would walk alone from the tavern, again.

Not after what had become of Susannah’s quick laughter.

All of the candles atop the hearth had guttered and gone out, save the one, ever-burning. As if nothing had ever changed. The sight of it brought her guts to a roiling fury. How dare-- 

Elda’s fingers hesitated. Then she drew a deep breath and reached towards it.


	26. Dress Up. (Firsthold, Auridon 4e173)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Taarie and Endaarie-- who I later show as the married couple who are forced to pose as 'sisters' and run Radiant Rainment. This story is set about three years before they are exiled to Skyrim.
> 
> Mask inspired by some historical Japanese erotica.
> 
> I wonder if Taarie will hang it on her wall?

“Endetiedarewyn,” Taarie repeated, amused. “That’s the name your parents chose for you? Just what were they thinking?”

Endarie fell back into that lazy upper-caste drawl that always turned Taarie’s knees to water: “They put on airs.” The tailor turned to open yet another box. “Much like I do.” Paper rustled. “Here, try out this sunshade. I haven’t done business with this vendor before, so you’ll have to let me know if it serves.” 

Endarie didn’t make such items; she had merely provided the fabric, to coordinate with Taarie’s formal outdoor reception gown. The silk of the parasol shimmered red and silver and gold.

“It seems to work well enough,” Taarie said, showing it off. “But--”

Endarie tsk’d. She ran her fingers along an unsecured edge. “This risks fraying. I can mend this, but I’ll make a complaint.” She took it back. “We have three more weeks. Have you given some thought to the costume yet?” Her voice became more severe: “Have you been reading?”

Even now, Taarie still flushed. She looked down. “Yes, madame.”

She had poured over every last line of Madame Endarie’s idea of research materials, mostly at night with the lamp turned down low. While everyone else slept. As soon as she heard someone wake, back those notes went into the lockbox.

“I trust we have a little time today?” Endarie’s fingers were already poised at her own clasps, waiting. 

“What would you do if I said no?” Taarie dared.

Endarie’s elegant shoulder lifted. “Crawl up under your skirts and use you like a two-septim Shimmerene harlot.” Her lip curled in contempt. “That never takes more than a few moments.”

For ten entire heartbeats, Taarie sat perfectly still, her face furiously ablaze.

Endarie kept her own hands right where they had been, displayed in such a position so as to accentuate the swell of her own breasts.

“We have time,” husked Taarie. “No one’s coming home till the dinner hour.” She couldn’t look away.

“Good to know.” In two swift movements Endarie divested herself of the bodice. She began to unlace the long-lined stays beneath. “Come maid for me. Don’t--” her voice rose, sharply.

Taarie’s hands froze.

“Don’t touch my skin,” Endarie directed. “Not yet.”

Taarie pulled free knots and slipped cords loose with extraordinary care. She took the bodice and the stays aside and folded them over the back of a chair, neatly.

“Mm,” Endarie glanced back over her shoulder, and smiled. “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like, to have a girl to dress me up. That is nice. How about you be the one on your knees, for a change?” She plucked the sticks from her hair and let it fall down about her shoulders, sighing. She began to unclasp her skirt.

By the time that her sheer linen under-chemise was the only layer left, and its pearl buttons undone to frame her pale-gold skin, Taarie was long since a supplicant at her feet. She gave a little tug, and Endarie’s last garment drifted to the floor.

“Go on then,” Endarie said, indulgently, nudging Taarie with a bare foot. Her toenails, Taarie noted distantly, were silver-gilt. She knew what she was supposed to be doing. Endarie’s notes had been thorough. Hands and mouth, she began to work her way up Endarie’s calf, kisses no less than a half-inch apart.

She made it as far as the hollow just inside Endarie’s hip before she utterly forgot herself, nuzzling, enraptured… till the sharp two-fingernail’d peck at the crown of her head.

“You forget yourself,” Endarie warned.

Taarie huffed. She kept going. 

A double hen-peck this time and Endarie stepped away, leaving Taarie on her knees bereft. What had she done? This was not good. Endarie was frowning.

“The measuring-stave, if you will.” 

Taarie’s hands were shaking as she drew it from Endarie’s valise, but even so she offered it up across the palms of both hands. When Endarie took it, Taarie kept her hands raised, palm up, waiting for the crack of the limber wood.

“Oh, no,” said Endarie, cooly. “Get back on your knees. Turn around. Face to the floor.”

Taarie’s breath was fluttering so much she didn’t even feel the first whistling crack, but she certainly felt the rest. She whimpered, having long since been conditioned to not yelp.  
Endarie paused. 

She used the flat of the stick to gently soothe over Taarie’s thighs and buttocks. “There we are,” she murmured. “That was good. That was brave. Do you want to see it, in the glass?” 

Taarie did not. She was shivering.

The measuring staff drifted up between her knees, to stroke along her inner thigh; and to even more gently nudge twixt her lips. Instantly it was slickened, but even so Endarie traced it along with utmost care. 

“Ahh,” Endarie approved, as Taarie rocked forward; the low cry of the rebec at the touch of Endarie’s bow. “Show me.” 

Taarie spread her knees even further, gasping. 

The stick moved away and instantly returned, flash of heat burning across the previous marks it had made. It moved to flick at Taarie’s hair; to prod her cheek, threatening her ear. It shivered.

“Show me,” Endarie ordered, and Taarie gave. Grunting with the effort, she reached behind herself to spread her buttocks open wider, to display herself further. 

“Better,” Endarie whispered, as three of her fingers slipped inside. Taarie nodded, her shoulders aching at the strain, the tears still rolling out of her and onto the parquet floor. She muffled another cry.

“Mmm, feel that,” said Endarie, gently tugging loose what Taarie’s cunt strained to keep in. “That’s a great deal of resistance. I think I know what you need.”

“Madame,” said Taarie, as humbly as she could, given these circumstances. “What I need is to get off this floor.”

Endarie laughed, free and easy. She handed Taarie up, and gave her leave to disport herself on the chaise. “Play however you like,” she said, indulgently. “Just-- don’t finish it. Leave that to me.”

She began to remove a number of items from the valise, accoutrements for the masquerade. A fan, an impossibly feathered fascinator; beetle-shell dappled gloves. “Here,” she said, shoving a long-nosed mask at Taarie. “Begin to make friends.”

Taarie laughed and held it up to her face. It… didn’t fit. Not in the slightest. In fact, the interior curve of the mask was impossibly broad and...

“Wait.” Taarie turned the mask over in her hands. “Am I under the wrong impression? I thought this was to be part of my costume.” Yes, it was long-nosed, but the nose seemed thick as well, and-- 

“Only if you care for it to be.” Endarie finished buckling the straps together. “I for one would derive great amusement. Though I’m not certain as to the possible reaction of your hosts. Or the other guests. But who knows, it might liven things up a little.” She slipped into the--

“And what’s that?” Taarie questioned. “Looks like a complicated girth-strap.” It ran around Endarie’s waist, and each leg--

“Just a harness,” said Endarie. “Nothing special.” She looked at Taarie. “I thought my notes were clear. Make friends.”

“I-- ah--” Taarie squirmed, making the welts on her skin rub against the velvet of the chaise. Was she in for more punishment? Endarie looked so severe. “I didn’t get that far in my reading,” she confessed. “I don’t get that much time alone. So I didn’t even-- Oh!”

Endarie approached, and plucked the mask from Taarie’s hands. The manner in which she was holding it removed all doubt. “Do I have to tell you a third time?”

“No, madame.” Taarie laughed nervously at its coolness. She had never before seen such a thing; there were shops for married people, of course, but she had never dared, and-- she grunted; and then a more obscene sound escaped her; a long wailing groan as she clenched and re-clenched around the nose of the mask. She was too stunned to beg forgiveness.

Endarie chose to be amused. “I did tell you to wait.” She pressed at the mask gently, till its grotesquely swollen lips were flush with Taarie's own. Taarie panted. 

“Look down,” Endarie commanded, and Taarie did; covering her instant reaction with her hand. She’d giggled.

“You may laugh,” murmured Endarie. “It’s very droll.” The crossed eyes of the mask were focused on Taarie’s most secret bit, with a tremendously startled expression. 

“He looks frightened by my nib.” Taarie widened her eyes to mimic the mask’s look of horror.

For just that moment, Endarie broke character, snorting with laughter until she had to hold her own sides, and walk over towards the table to recover. She cleared her throat and wiped a hand over her face, her demeanor settling back into its usual severe lines.

“Let’s give the poor daedra a bit of respite then, shall we?”

Endarie had Taarie lick the mask clean, to her minutest satisfaction, before setting it aside. “We’ll get back to that. You’ve been lazy, lolling around like that. How about getting back to work?”

Taarie wanted to hesitate, but she was already on her knees again, her arms around Endarie’s knees; and soon they were on the floor again, the long amber strands of Taarie’s hair catching under Endarie’s hips. When she was this worked up, Endarie was quick, quick; those impatient pecking fingers at Taarie’s scalp again, before her thighs clamped across Taarie’s ears as she shuddered.

Her hand ghosted up to Endarie’s waist. “Five minutes?”

Endarie hummed assent, and Taarie crawled up to lie within her arms, pressing her face into Endarie’s neck. Endarie stroked her ear, feather-soft. Their breath caught the same rhythm, and then their magicka; and it was the waves of the ocean all over again, grief-guilt-anger-loss.

“I wish I could have you with me all the time, love,” she whispered.

Endarie’s face remained serene. “We get what we get, my dear one.” Her lips brushed Taarie’s forehead and they clung together for several long moments, wishing.

“Time,” said Endarie, after what seemed like the shortest while. “Shall we wash our faces and start over?”

“Back in the middle of things,” said Taarie, surprising herself. 

“Where were we?” Endarie had found the mask again; she was looking it over.

“You had just chosen to overlook my--” Taarie smirked. “Error in judging my own reactions.” She stretched, arching her back. “You were right, that was necessary. It was rapturous.”

Endarie quirked a brow. “Is it even going to be possible? You look a little tired.”

Taarie reclined on the chaise again. “Get back to work.”

She drew her heels up, then let her knees fall all the way apart, in order to give Endarie the most enticing view.

Endarie was still fussing with the mask and harness. “This feels ridiculous.” She frowned. “I should try to get into character.” She began to walk up and down the room at a quick pace with just a bit of a strut. The nose of the mask bobbed up and down.

Taarie was shaking with suppressed laughter. “It looks ridiculous. Get up here!”

Endarie clambered up onto her knees, sliding herself closer. 

Taarie gripped the nose and guided it.

Endarie’s breath hissed. “Don’t you think some caution is warranted?” At Taarie’s urging, she rocked all the way forward, pressing till it was fully engulfed. “All right?” she asked, anxious. “It’s not too much? I’m not too heavy?”

Taarie gazed up at Endarie’s face and then down at the equally horrified mask. She was sent off again, till Endarie was sure she was having hysterics and started patting at her.

“Yuh… you...you’ve seen my husband,” Taarie managed. “Built like a sload.” She rolled her hips up, just a bit. “Mmm. And not to be vulgar about it…” she was lost again. “...but I do have three children. Our little friend here is--” another incremental shift. “Nothing, really. Hmm,” she sighed. “Yes! There. Rock, just a bit.”

“You will have--” Endarie paused to catch her breath, her forehead v’d in concentration. “To explain this to me later.”

More snickering, and this time when Endarie protested, Taarie pulled her down for a kiss. “I shall take notes for you to review,” she promised. “If you promise to study.”

\--

A little later, the room was once more pristine, the cover that had been over the chaise tossed into the laundry. Taarie had time to bathe, and to get dressed for dinner, and to go looking for her necklace that she had misplaced… when she saw.

There were a couple of septims on her nightstand.

Smothering laughter again, Taarie dropped the coins into her lockbox.


	27. Dance. (Shor's Stone, The Rift 4e204.)

“Odfel! I’ve told you time and time again that I’m not interested in a relationship with you.” Sylgia slapped down her empty mug and pushed back from the bench. She started to get up, but that was a process; she had to get herself squared up and put both hands on the table.

Odfel was busily grumbling into his mead, about how he was well set-up with a good house, good-looking, charming…what else could a woman need?

Sylgia found her stick, and used it to lever herself up all the way upright. “What I need is someone who cares about me more than they care about themselves. That person isn’t you.” She paused by the door and turned back. “And if you’re going to address me by name, maybe you ought to pay a little more attention. Because my name’s not Grel-”

“Oh!” she startled. “Hey, Grelka.”

“Hey,” said the merchant, pulling the door wide open so that Sylgia could get outside more easily.

“Odfel’s in there and he’s drunk already,” warned Sylgia. 

Grelka groaned. She didn’t much care for her ex, which was why she never stayed long in Stonehills. A pity.

“Thanks, I’ll go straight back to my room so he can’t whine at me. You want your mail?”

“Getting too dark to read.” Sylgia glanced up at the cloudy sky. “And it’s fixing to rain. I’d better lie down while I still can. No, it’s good-- I can get down the hill on my own. I don’t need help.”

“Take care of yourself, kid.” Grelka went on into the inn.

\--

“Whatcha doing?’

Sylgia looked up, and brushed her hair back out of her face. “Have to do something for septims. Can’t mine just yet,” she said, rueful. “Used to swing a pick with best of them but now--” she gestured at her thigh. “Careful of those rocks if you’re going in there.” She went back to peeling carrots.

“Hold still,” said Grelka. 

Rough fingertips brushed the back of Sylgia’s neck. Grelka tugged Sylgia’s falling-out braid loose and sleeked all of the wisps of her hair back, tying it into a rough tail.

“Thanks!” said Sylgia. “Times like this, I miss my mother.”

“Ah,” said Grelka, a little awkwardly. She shifted around, picked a few of the carrots up into her own lap, and drew a steel dagger to begin peeling them. “I was hoping you’d be back on your feet by now.”

“Almost!” Sylgia radiated a cheerfulness she could not feel. “Pretty soon I’ll be back to work. And running, and dancing…”

The corner of Grelka’s mouth had curved up as she focused on her carrot. “You dance?”

“Used to,” said Sylgia, looking out over the rolling hills, carpeted in spring’s brilliant green and new violets. 

Like to see that.” Grelka tossed the last carrot into the bucket and stood up, wiping off her hands on her leathers. “See ya.”

\--

“Hey,” called Grelka, scuffing her way through the piles of yellow aspen leaves. “You still laid up?”

“Sure am,” said Sylgia, lowering the pillowcase she was darning.

“That ain’t right.” Grelka pointed with her chin at the loaded wagon. “I’m headed back down to Riften to get this to Balimund. Think you can stand a cart ride? Probably should have the priests take another look at you.”

\--

“What’s wrong?” Grelka set down the helmet and hurried over.

“Maramal said that there was nothing they could do for it now-- that it had gone on for too long.” Sylgia buried her face against Grelka’s cuirass; its burnished leather cooling her tear-reddened cheek.

“Did they give you any help at all?”

“Maramal said I should go on to see Danica Pure-Spring in Whiterun.” Sylgia sniffled. “And Dinya gave me a pamphlet.” She held it out.

Grelka looked it over. “Mara will never leave you, never cast you out, and never forsake you!” she read, and scoffed. “Doesn’t say anything about helping you, now does it?”

“Not so much,” agreed Sylgia. “I’m just not sure how I’d get to Whiterun. I don’t have that kind of money. I could go back to my parents, I suppose, but--” She looked around at Riften’s ratty, run-down market, at its four beggars and six merchants.

“You know what,” said Grelka. “Let me think about this. Let’s get some supper and sit out in that park by the Talos statue.” 

Sylgia smiled, a little tremulous. She knew why Grelka'd picked that park. The even ground was easier for Sylgia to navigate.

-

“So tell me about this dancing. Why do you miss it so much?” Grelka drank more of her bootleg mead, and passed the stone jug over. Her other arm wound more tightly around Sylgia’s waist.

Sylgia wiped her face. “I don’t know-- it’s just-- I was always pretty good at it. My mother would say I looked just like one of the Temple priestesses. And when you’re dancing, and you’re in the dance, and you feel it, all beautiful-- it feels just like Aetherius.”

When Grelka tipped her into the mead-flavored kiss, Sylgia settled back in the soft dead grass. They lay together, murmuring against each other’s skin, while a gentle breeze cuffed at their hair.

“We can’t go to Whiterun,” Sylgia whispered. “You’ll lose your stall! I can’t cost you your livelihood.” 

Gently, Grelka hushed her. She sat up to look around. “No one out here at all.”

Her warmth returned to Sylgia, and the mead-scented tickle of her breath, and the cooler feel of her hand sliding up beneath Sylgia's skirts. 

“We'll find a way to make it work." Grelka's fingers began to work, and she gave a soft laugh as Sylgia's hips rolled. "More than one way to dance," she soothed.


	28. Pillows. (Cowflop Farmhouse, Rorikstead 4e199)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reldith meets Lash gra-Dushnikh, who is a disappointment to her mother.

“Someone’s coming down the lane,” Ennis reported, a bit out of breath. “They’ve got a sword.”

“Were they alone?” Reldith touched the dagger that was always at her side. “Did they look like they were bent on mischief? Or did they look like someone after buying eggs?”

Just then an orc crested the rise and hallo’d the farm. She had a sword, yes-- but also a long green cloak, over which she’d slung a basket.

“You see? Eggs,” Reldith said to Ennis, firmly. “Go back up and finish weeding the potatoes.”

\--

“Well, I’m not certain I’d wish to make such a trade,” said Reldith, a bit taken aback. “In fact I’m a bit concerned about having it around the house. Ennis might get ideas about running off to be a soldier.” She sat on the fence to look over the blade again, at the rippling blue sheen of its metal; at the care set into the carvings on the bone grip. “Why do you wish to be rid of it? Have you got a better blade?”

Lash gra-Dushnikh sighed. She pushed the wayward strands of her dark hair off her face and began to re-secure her braid. “There is love in it, and hate.”

She explained: growing up in the orc stronghold; choosing to move onward when the chieftain-her-father fell; the bitter disappointment of her mother, who had been Dushnikh’s forge-wife, and wished for her daughter to become so, in turn. 

“When I said that wasn’t the life for me; that I was going to go on to the city and find work, she got very angry with me. Made threats. Said I’d end up on the streets; have no place to go but the Temple of Dibella; end up in concubinage on some perverted noble’s silk pillows.”

Reldith blinked. “That sounds like a very… specific… concern for a mother to have,” she said, politely. It would be rude to laugh. Though, she thought, Lash did have compelling hazel eyes, and the brown of her hair shone rich against dark-green skin. Maybe she passed as a beauty, amongst orcs.

“Yeah,” agreed Lash. “She’s always been a bit funny.” She laughed. “I should be so lucky, getting such an easy life. Pillows.” She snorted.

Reldith laughed. “Better be careful,” she advised. “You never know who might be concealing some illicit desire. And anyone could harbor pretensions of nobility. My family, for instance--” She gave a graceful little flick of wrist, as though settling many layers of gossamer robes into place.

Lash broke out into a laugh, free and easy. “Oh yes, of course, my lady.”

Reldith said: “There wasn’t much left of us after the Dominion took over, so as soon as I came of age it was the Legion, for the land-grant.” She gestured around herself, at the farm. “You see how it is, the veriest lap of luxury. In particular the pig-mucking.”

Lash was still grinning. 

“What did you end up doing?” asked Reldith. The orc woman’s palms were calloused and tough; not too far off from her own, as a farmer. She resisted the urge to reach over, and touch.

“I went to work in one of the Silver-Blood mines for a bit, but I didn’t like having to get after those poor prisoners. So when Ainethach happened by, looking for strong backs--” she shrugged. “Been down at Karthwasten ever since. It isn’t bad. I made some money; was sending some home. Now this.” 

She took the sword back from Reldith’s lap and turned it over in expert hands, all humor gone. “My mother, expressing shame, and grief. It’s a clear message: Don’t come home.”

Reldith frowned. “Your mother made it. Don’t you want to keep it?”

“It twists me up inside, to see it,” said the orc, painfully.

\---

It turned out that Ennis had no desire at all for the sword; and it was much too big for his hands. He also thought that Reldith ought to get rid of it, before the tavern owner’s son got wind of it and came over to pester them about it. So Reldith sold it, to the next Khajiit caravan that came by, and the two of them bought a few more cows with the proceeds. 

Reldith took the time to have a few words with her son, to let him know that if he wanted to take the road as a soldier or mercenary-- well, she wouldn’t like it; it was dangerous, but he would go with her blessing. She could make another disposition of the farm, when she couldn’t work anymore. Ennis was pleased, but he had no intention of leaving, it seemed. He began to take a greater interest in the workings of the farm, and even went down to town to meet with Rorik and Jouane to learn more than what Reldith could teach him.

Lash gra-Dushnik continued to stop by every few days, to buy eggs or fresh milk or vegetables for the miners. They would sit up in the barn and talk, sometimes long into the night. After a few weeks of this, Ennis began to time his weekly trips to Whiterun with Lash’s arrival.

“Ah, look at that boy,” said Reldith one day, Lash standing beside her as Ennis loaded the wagon for a hurried departure, clucking at the mule to get it moving. “Getting out of the way like a brother who doesn’t want to be watching his sister’s courting.”

Lash was chewing on a bit of wheat-straw and nearly choked. She spat it loose and grinned over at Reldith: “‘s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

Reldith’s fingers grasped the front of her own apron, worrying at a frayed bit. “Might be,” she said, slowly. And-- “We’ve got the place to ourselves. Might as well go up to the house.”

\--

Reldith lifted her head, drowsily, and tugged her braid out from underneath her cheek. Lash’s thighs still glistened with sweat, and her eyes had fallen shut; her chestnut hair had come down and waved softly over her shoulders and curved about her breasts. Her tusks gleamed against the rosiness of lip.

“All right?” Reldith murmured, pleased.

“Hnghh.” Lash’s eyes remained shut. “Can’ move. Gimme a--”

After a few more moments she’d gone back to tiny open-mouthed snores. Reldith nudged her. “You’ve got work to do.”

“Oooh. Yeah.” The orc rolled to her side, prompting a general rearrangement of limbs. “Whoops, sorry,” she said, as one slipped to the floor. “Too many pillows.” She cupped the back of Reldith’s head, and frowned, thinking.

“They’re just linen,” Reldith said at once. “If you wanted silk, you’d have to go down to the temple and petition Dibella.”

Lash laughed softly, deep in her chest. She finished the kiss, pressing gently against Reldith’s cheek with a tusk when she was done. Her thigh slid between Reldith’s as she tugged her up atop her. “Could we buy some, you think?”


End file.
